Chapter 6 #2
Roy shook his head, revolted. “That’s absurd.
He died on his deathbed, surrounded by loved ones.
” Then again, the critical analysis Roy had read, late at night when the moon was bright and his chest was bleeding after he’d stumbled into Gabriel, was, in retrospect, flimsy, unreliable.
The story could’ve been pulled from the grief-distorted memories of Razkamun’s family, then reinterpreted throughout time.
History was not always a reflection on a still lake. Sometimes the water rippled.
“So go the rumors—or, rather, the revisionist histories—but the truth is hard, darling,” Percival said. He winked. “It looks like you might need to find a new hero.”
“Yet I ask again: Why do you continue to read Razkamun?”
Percival ran his fingers through his hair.
“I’m never going to escape this hell, am I?
Fine. Let me explain. My brain could use a bit of softening.
” Roy elected to ignore this. “Why have I been slogging my way through Razkamun’s work?
That’s rather simple, frankly: I thought it would hold the answers I’m looking for. ”
“You’re already making headway with the investigation?” Roy asked. “You’re studying Razkamun to research the Old Ones?”
Percival slanted his hand from side to side.
“Indirectly, yes, I suppose so. I figured that, since the subject matter is well beyond my purview as a philosopher, it may be easier to start with what I know best. I initially avoided Razkamun’s work—I’ve heard the most baffling things about the man—but I decided this morning I should probably cover all my bases. ”
Roy frowned. “That’s . . . understandable, I guess, but it concerns me that you’re more concentrated on your disregard for his fame than what he was famous for.”
Percival rolled his eyes. “I am quite aware of his prolific work ethic and profound success, thank you kindly. But there is a difference between deserved success and working diligently solely for the approval of the academic community. The creatives who have endured years of assiduous research, who have isolated themselves for the sheer purpose of developing their projects, are often undermined by those whose projects are meager and weak in comparison. I suppose we might never fully understand their biases, though.” A dark melancholy rippled across Percival’s face.
“Anyway, I’ve clarified my motive, as you requested.
I just wanted to see if he had anything interesting, and worthwhile, to offer. But alas . . .”
“There’s nothing in there regarding the Old Ones?” Roy nodded to Upon Attrition. He couldn’t recall any mention of them in Razkamun’s work.
Percival glowered. “The Governor might have chained us together, Dawnseve, but you’re deeply mistaken if you think I’ll show you any of my notations. I work alone.”
Roy suppressed the anger building in his chest. “The Governor assigned us this task for that very reason: To exchange ideas, to share theories, to understand why the Old Ones came here. What they want with—or from, I should say—Northgard. Did he not stress that to you?”
Percival tilted his head back, displaying the prominent jut of his chin, the shadowed hollow at the base of his throat.
The moonlight behind him shifted, dragging a quilt of gloom across his face.
He looked at Roy with his tired, dark gold eyes.
Time slowed around them, pulling at the space between them, yet neither he nor Roy made a single move.
“You’re remarkably brave, darling,” Percival said. “Our first encounter, and you’ve already gotten on my nerves.” He sighed, then, once again, turned to leave.
Indecision tore through Roy like a wildfire.
Here was his chance, a rare occasion, to conduct research with a fellow scholar, and a passionate one at that.
Clearly, Percival was not the most restful soul, but perhaps this might be attributable to his exhaustion.
Roy himself had snapped at Briar multiple times on the delirious, sleepless nights he’d devoted to his studies.
Once the morning came, and winter’s cold sunlight with it, he had no doubt that Percival would be content, if not acquiescent, to study alongside him. Besides, didn’t he realize the stakes?
Galvanized by this line of reasoning, Roy called out, “Percival.”
Percival stopped, Upon Attrition still clutched in his grip. He offered Roy a sharp, impatient nod.
“I just spoke to the Governor,” Roy said.
This caused not the merest flicker of recognition or surprise across Percival’s face, though Roy forged on.
“He told me about the war, why Northgard and the other islands have been so ruthlessly beaten by the Old Ones. The Edict is growing frail, the Droves’ strength is flagging, and .
. . Well, leaving a long story short, there’s little stopping these soldiers from slaughtering the city.
If we don’t make a stand, we could be swimming in blood within the next year. ”
Percival remained silent, but he cocked his head.
Roy continued, “But that’s why the Governor summoned us here—to help push back the tide.
There must be some way to retaliate. I’m not sure if the Governor thinks it can be done explicitly through research, but if nobody tries, if nobody steps up, the Old Ones will make a wasteland of Northgard.
And if there’s a chance to prevent that, then we should take it.
Then I should take it.” Because I’ve been proven wrong so many times before.
Because, if I can do this, then I can prove my worth.
“Yes, that’s wonderful, Roy. I heard the old man say all that to me, too.”
They stood there for a moment in silence. The bookshelves stretched tall around them like sleeping wooden sentinels. No sound broke the quiet but for the hushed, ghostly wailing of the wind.
Then a soft whisper came from Percival’s lips. “Come closer.” He crooked his finger to Roy, who stepped toward him, though he couldn’t guess at Percival’s intent.
Nevertheless, Roy obeyed. He came closer to Percival, and when Percival kept making that beckoning gesture, closer still.
Eventually, he was standing near enough to Percival that his breath danced across Roy’s brow, down the curve of his cheek and across his upturned throat like a noose made of softest silk.
Then Percival gripped Roy by the back of his neck, holding him firmly in place, and squeezed. “You will listen to me very carefully, darling. If you approach me again—even to ask where to find a fucking book—”
“What will you do?” Roy spat back. “Kill me?”
Percival glared, and to Roy’s immense surprise, there shone in his eyes the finest patina of tears. He blinked them away, though he looked more angry than sad. Yet he couldn’t force the crack out of his voice when he said, “Leave me be. We’re better off on our own.”
Roy nodded, and finally, Percival let go.
Roy stood there for some time, the echo of Percival’s hold lingering like a scar.
He hadn’t a shadow of a doubt that, come morning, there would be a strain in his neck, something to remember this disastrous, strange encounter by.
Already, he could feel the imprints of Percival’s fingers and the insistence of his counsel—Leave me be—sinking in.
Percival uttered a grunt of resignation. “Go. Just go.”
Roy didn’t require any further incentive.
He left the reading room and, not long after, discovered a hall not far from the bookshelves where he’d been chased by the shadow and found—saved, he supposed—by Percival.
He wanted to look around more, but he was too tired, his mind too scattered to take in his surroundings.
Instead, Roy opened the door of the first chamber he came across, a heavy weariness pressing into his bones, and trudged toward a four-poster bed. He slipped beneath the soft satin sheets and immediately fell asleep.
A face appeared in his dreams that night.
It was blurry but distinctly familiar: short gold hair, a firm mouth, and a pair of stunning hazel eyes.
Stunning, yes, but deeply sad, too. Roy tried to unveil the tragedy lurking behind those eyes, like a stagehand pulling back the curtains, and yet every time he stretched out his fingers, it was always just out of his reach.